Coping
by Lady Shaye
Summary: Lisbon never came to the CBI. But now she's moved to the great CA for a family emergency, and there she meets a man named Patrick Jane, who is all alone, grieving for his family's death. And only she can help him. AU, set a year after Jane's family dies.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Don't own. Sob. I hope you're all happy with yourselves for making me say that. Repeatedly.

Summary: Teresa Lisbon never took the job at CBI. She's just come from San Francisco for a family emergency. But it will mean more than that. Her trip will take her to something more. It will take her to Patrick Jane.

* * *

Teresa Lisbon has just turned down a job offer. She has stayed at the San Francisco department. She never took the job for the CBI, though it did sound pretty good, not to mention less stressful. (Especially with no "Saint Teresa" reputation there to be worried about. Getting hailed as a local hero can be annoying sometimes.)

But her brother, Matthew, who moved to California just a few years ago, has just called her. He is dying of cancer and he needs support. Their other siblings won't talk to him. In truth, she's the only one who's in touch with all of them (even though it's bare minimum contact with Tommy). And he's all alone. So today she is boarding the plane that will take her to brother.

It will take her to a lot of other things.

It will take her to a man that has just lost his wife and child, who is going crazy with grief.

It will take her to loss, and love, and hope.

It will take her to Patrick Jane.

* * *

She can't understand why Matthew didn't tell her before. She's his sister, for God's sakes, and he's been dying all alone in a hospital for a year? And he didn't think to even give her a call, not even a "heads up, sis, I'm dying of leukemia?" Seriously?

She should be sad, but she's always been better at covering that up with anger, so that's what she does now. She sits there on the plane and quietly fumes to herself, sandwiched between a window and an unremarkable salesman chattering away on the phone nonstop, so fast that it almost doesn't even sound like English. Eventually, she pulls out her book, but she's read it before, so she sets it down and concentrates on the view outside the window instead, earphones plugged in so she can hear, if not see, the dramatic rainy fight scene of The Notebook. (Is it sad that her now-ex-boyfriend _made_ her watch that while they were together? Is it sad that she didn't want to see it, and still doesn't? She thinks so.)

Eventually, they land, and she gets off the plane with no one to greet her. Matthew can't leave the hospital, and because he has no family here, neither does she. She's alone in this giant airport, watching families greet each other and lovers kiss passionately like they haven't seen each other in years. Maybe they haven't. She's not all that great in the skill of people-watching, anyway, and it doesn't really matter much to her. It's their business, after all, not hers.

Picking up her bags, her destination is for the hospital first and foremost. She will find a hotel later. She hails a cab, and when she tells the driver her destination and he tells her the approximate fee, she resolves that if she is indeed staying here for the long run (which she is, she determinedly thinks) then it would probably be easier, as well as cheaper and faster, to get a rental car.

This is _so_ going to put such a huge dent in her life savings fund.

But it's Matt. And he's hurting. So she'll do it without a thought. If only for him, she'll do it.

* * *

She immediately decides that she hates cab drivers. She rarely, if ever, took cabs in San Francisco, choosing instead to get her own car, which she didn't bring with her to her destination because of all the hurry. There was simply no time, and it was easier to just get a plane ticket than start driving when she felt like she was only just barely coping with the news. She felt like she couldn't drive. But now she is glad that she never took cabs in San Fran, because this is _annoying_. This fifty-something man with hair coming out of his ears, chewing on a sub and barely keeping his eyes on a road, is speaking to her with his food half-masticated in his mouth. She can't even tell what he's talking about and is unaware of what is going on, only that he is doing three things at the same time: not paying attention to the road, going at least twenty miles over the speed limit, and scaring her partly to death.

(There have been a lot of things that should have scared her before. "Should" being the operative word. But this driver scares her more than all of the times a gun has been held to her head…combined.)

Not only is this death-defying (like _death-I-laugh-in-your-face-come-get-me-you-bastard-I-dare-you_ defying) but it is also…well, irritating.

She concludes that she must rent a car immediately. Before the hotel, even. Anything to keep from getting in one of these death traps again, much less with another driver who doesn't even deserve his license.

Her cell phone trills its no-nonsense ringtone (she debated between this and "Escape," the pina colada song, but this one was less likely to embarrass her at work) and she pulls it out, smiling when she sees the picture she assigned to this particular contact. It's of her coworker, in his uniform, smiling, perfectly posed. She flips open her phone and speaks first. "Hey, Sam," she says with a grin, keeping her eyes on the road in the place of her driver, who still isn't doing so.

"Hi, Tess," Agent Bosco barks out. "So, bossman says you're gonna be gone for an 'indeterminable amount of time'. What the hell? Why didn't you call me?"

"I did," she points out politely. "If you listened to your damn voicemails, Sam, honestly—"

"I did! I listened to my 'damn voicemails,' actually. Why didn't you actually talk to me, though?"

She sighs. "Look, Sam, by the time I actually thought to call anybody besides the boss, my plane was getting ready. It was a whole last-minute thing. I only got in one call before I had to get on board, and then I had to turn my cell phone off. And when I did call you, I got voicemail. I did what I could. Besides, isn't a voicemail preferential to a few hours of silence while I'm on a plane and then talking to my brother in the hospital? I would have been unable to contact you for hours. I didn't know I'd get all this free time while my cab driver puts my life on the line." She stifles a laugh, half-joking and half seriously worried.

Even though he's miles and miles away, she can just tell that somewhere unknown to her, he's slicking back his hair absentmindedly, as he's so wont to do when he's nervous, or, more importantly, when he knows that somebody else is right and is mad as hell about it. "Fine," he spits out. "But you have to call me every single day from now on, you got that?"

"I understand," she teases, "or you'll call in a S.W.A.T. team, not to mention the entire damn army. Every damn day. Do I have a certain time, Mommy, or will whenever do?"

She can hear him grinding his teeth, which makes her want to laugh more. "By ten," he decides firmly, and she holds back a laugh. "If you don't call by ten, I _will _start running up your cell phone bill," he promises. "And if I don't get an answer by ten-thirty, I'm calling the local police. I don't care if your phone died or whatever, but if I don't get a call by then, I swear, I'll come down there myself _after_ I get the chief of police on your ass."

Lisbon nods distractedly, eyes still on the road as the cab driver dramatically swerves for no reason, then she remembers that he can't see her. "Okay, fine. Yeah. Ten-thirty. Look, Sammy, I'm gonna be in the hospital in ten minutes—five, if this cab driver keeps it up—" she mutters to herself, but she can hear Bosco laugh over the phone, obviously having heard her "—and anyway, I need to end this call."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Give Matthew my best, huh? Bye, Tess."

"Bye, Sam." _Click_.

The cab driver stops rambling for a second, perhaps having noticed that she was on the phone and was never really listening. He watches her from the corner of his eye for a moment, then finally asks, "Boyfriend?"

She casts her gaze down. "No. Partner. He's…married."

The driver nods understandingly—maybe—and turns his eyes toward the road, thank _God_. She was getting ready to strangle him just a few seconds ago.

Lisbon turns her stare back to the road. It's true. Sam's married to his lovely wife, Mandy, and they're a perfect couple. He and Mandy love each other. So has she been imagining it? The way his glance lingers on her sometimes? The way he leaves his wife at home almost eagerly to join her for an interrogation? The way he tells her she looks beautiful when she didn't even have a chance to throw on any mascara that morning? The way he supports her throughout her absolutely crazy ideas?

_Stop it. Enough_, she reminds herself. _Sam is _not _falling in love with you. He's happily married, and you guys just have a great, very understanding partnership. He doesn't love you and he never will, so don't get it into your head that he possibly might. You have other things to worry about than somebody else's unrequited love for you, because God knows you could never let yourself love Sam. He's great, sure, but he's married. To Mandy. One of your best friends who _isn't_ on the squad, remember? Let it go. Remember, you have other things to be concerned about. More important pressing matters._

Right. Matt.

* * *

They reach the hospital and she pays the fee, secretly thanking God with all that she has that they didn't crash into something. It would not do to get killed on the way to see her dying brother, or even to end up in the room next to his or something.

She briefly smiles and then it hits her.

Because, oh God, Matt is _dying_.

Her little brother. Her _baby_. Hell, all three of the boys were practically still babies when Mom died, and they were so young when Dad killed himself, too. They were so young when all four of them got split up in foster care, which she tried so hard to prevent. But it was unavoidable, and so they'd all ended up in different parts of the country. James was in Florida, of all places, when she'd heard from him last, and God knew where Tommy was now, and she'd ended up in San Fran on the team. And Matt was in California, in a hospital bed, all alone with no family.

Well, now he has her.

She stands outside of the hospital with all of the nameless chain-smokers (probably pushed into smoking more by the pressure of having someone in the hospital), briefly letting herself feel this grief. She lets a few tears escape, then wipes them away furiously and steps inside. It's time to be brave, to be strong, to be there for Matt. She's his big sister, for God's sakes, and she needs to step up to the plate like she always has done. She goes to the nurses' desk and requests his room number. Room 417.

Lisbon walks away from the nurses' desk. She does not hear the nurse calling her back a few seconds later. She does not hear anything over the tears of people in the emergency room and the screams of patients in pain in the ICU, not even the nurse's hoarse yell.

* * *

Annabelle Harper, the newest fifty-something nurse who has already become infamous for her lack of skills (to the _extreme_) concerning paperwork, swears and sighs. She never wanted this job anyway, but when she got fired from her teaching position, her husband insisted she get work _somewhere, _and this was the easiest. Her coworker, Janice Hopkins, asks her what's wrong, and she sighs again before explaining. "I sent that poor woman to the wrong room. Instead of seeing her brother, who's in 471, she's going to that new patient in 417, you know, the one who was in the mental hospital? He had to leave when he got hurt, but he's going back as soon as he heals up. The one who tried to slit his wrists?"

Nurse Hopkins nods understandingly. "Patrick Jane. Yeah, I remember him. That poor little lady is in for one hell of a surprise."

"Not to mention, one hell of a ride."

They laugh together, Nurse Harper still feeling vaguely lingering regret, but they forget about it in ten minutes when there is a four-car pileup and a flood of patients, as well as many simultaneously-angry-and-sad family members. Within a few moments, they forget about sending Teresa Lisbon to the wrong room.

They called it one hell of a ride.

They have no idea.

* * *

A/N: I'm working on transcribing the next chapter (I have it handwritten) but I'm going away for a while to place with no Internet. I just wanted to post this before I left. Also, I know there was no Jane in this, but believe me, he's coming up!

Feel free to review. One word.


	2. Hanging By A Thread

Disclaimer: I'm afraid that if you tried to sue me for owning _The Mentalist_, then all you would get would be a bunch of pretty awesome DVDs and a Jisbon-filled computer history. Sorry.

A/N: I hope this is clear enough. I wasn't quite sure about the ending, but I made myself post it up anyway. I hope you like it!

* * *

_Simply put_  
_I am hanging on here by a thred_  
_So confused, I need you_  
_Chaos swims so rapid in my head..._

-Eowyn, "Crashing"*

*This is meant to describe how much Jane unconsciously needs Lisbon in this story, and how lost he is...sort of meant to provide more to his thoughts, since this is really Lisbon-centered. At the same time, Lisbon also really needs Jane. I hope the story makes that a little clearer.

* * *

She tentatively knocks on the door, so quietly that she can barely hear it herself, and then rolls her eyes to herself. _Jeez, Tess, it's not like you're approaching a stranger,_ she scolds herself. _It's Matt, for God's sake, _Matt._ He's not gonna _bite_ you or anything, quit being stupid. You've snuck up on serial killers, for heaven's sake! You ought to be able to take down your own baby brother._

Taking another deep breath for good measure, and reprimanding herself all in one breath, Lisbon opens the door.

Okay. Unless Matt met the finest damn plastic surgeon in the freaking _universe_, the man sleeping in that bed is _not_ her little brother.

He's got to be at least her age, probably older. Not to mention, this man does not have the trademark Lisbon dark hair—he has these blond ringlets that would ridiculous on anyone else. _Which actually kind of work for him_, she finds herself thinking. She shuts herself up.

He has the standard tanned Californian skin, though he looks pale, probably due to blood loss, she deducts. He doesn't look like he has a fever or anything, so it's probably that. She searches his body for a wound, but it's unlikely that she'll see it, because he's tangled up in the bedsheets pretty damn well. Only his head, his neck, his upper chest, and his arms are visible, but maybe—wait._ Bingo_.

Bandages, wrapped around his wrists.

Oh. Shit. Shit shit shit shit _shit_.

Suicide attempt. This changes the whole game. This guy needs a therapist, not somebody who can't even get into the right room. This guy…no. She hates thinking that she's being selfish by not trying to help him, but how can she? He's obviously in a dark place, and she's in her own dark place, and there is just absolutely _no damn way_. It would be far easier for them both to never meet again, because she'd be awkward, and she doesn't quite know yet how he'd be.

She tries to silently leave the room. And of course, being the blundering idiot that she is, she somehow backs up into the wall right next to the open doorway, banging into it noisily and painfully. As if that weren't enough, a few—ahem—_choice_ words slip out of her mouth without her permission. (Insert a stream of profanity.) Loudly.

The man's eyes flicker open slowly as she rubs the back of her head, wincing at the pain and the awkwardness that is sure to ensue.

He must have some of the most stunning blue eyes she's ever seen. They're clear and bright, but then he blinks and seems to remember several sad somethings. They turn a duller, almost grayish-blue—sadder, wiser, heartbroken. He blinks again, and looks at her. She, of course, is predictably standing as straight as a rod, with eyes wide open like a deer in front of the headlights. Her first response is the urgent desire to flee, to run out of the room and find her brother.

Then he speaks. "Don't go," he says hoarsely, like he can tell that she desperately wants to leave, and despite the rasp in his voice, she can hear the melodic, pleasant, almost dull tone of his voice. It's the voice of someone who used to have everything, the voice of someone who is good at pretending. She had that kind of voice, back in high school when she hid the bruises and took care of her brothers, and sometimes she still does when the cases are too hard and she doesn't want anybody to ask if she's okay, for fear that she'll say something other than _yes, I'm fine_. "Please. Stay," he says almost pleadingly. "I—I want someone around. I'm tired of being alone, and I'm tired of being asleep all of the time. Just, please. Just stay."

Well, she doesn't look forward to it, but to be quite honest, he looks pathetic. Like a lost puppy or something that's begging her to take care of him, to look after him, to—oh, right, _respond_. "All right," she reluctantly says. "For ten minutes. Then I have to go meet my brother."

His face breaks out into this uncontainable, infectious grin. The corners of her mouth almost tug up into a smile, but she restrains it at the last second. "Ten minutes is all that I need, Agent," he promises.

"How did you know that I'm an agent?"

"Your dress, your manner, everything about you screamed it to me. I'm a psy—" he cuts himself off as he apparently says something he's in the habit of saying, his smile fading abruptly. After a few seconds, he amends it to, "—mentalist, you know."

"A psy-mentalist?"

"No, no. Just a mentalist."

"Not psychic?"

"Psychics don't exist, Agent." He flashes her a teasing smirk. "The ones that claim to do so are frauds."

She feels herself relax. She can't help it. This man…his charm, his sense of humor…even knowing that this man tried to kill himself (she's seen those wounds too often for it to be anything else), she can't help but smile at his charisma. He has this allure about him that makes her forget about wanting to leave. He pulls her in, makes her want to stay. Dammit.

"Well, that sucks," she huffs. There's a pregnant pause. "Getting my future told would sure help me out right now," she explains softly.

"I could tell you about your past and present instead," he offers.

Lisbon shakes her head. "What a nice offer, but I'm afraid I'd rather you didn't do that."

There are so many things in her past that she doesn't want to get into, and her present really doesn't have that much that's cheerful to talk about. And maybe it's wrong to want to talk about cheerful things in a hospital, but here she is, talking to a suicide attempter and about to go visit her dying brother, so would you deny her a little uplifting conversation?

"All right," he acquiesces. "I can concede to that. All of us have our little…skeletons in the closet, I'm afraid. Some more than others."

She purses her lips and steps closer to his bed, noting the faint hint of wavy golden chest hair peeking out from his hospital gown. She swallows. _No, no, Teresa. Down. Bad girl. This guy's off-limits, for _so_ many obvious reasons._ "I'm afraid so. By the way, I'm Special Agent Teresa Lisbon, from San Francisco," she introduces herself, stretching out a hand.

The man reaches out his own hand and shakes it. She tries to ignore the bandages wrapped around his wrist. "I know they're rather hard to look at," he apologizes to her, noting the way she specifically avoids looking at his arms. "I'm sorry. I'm Patrick Jane."

"It's nice to meet you."

"It would've been nicer if we'd met under happier circumstances," he suggests, and she nods, laughing a little.

"Yes," she concurs. "That would have been much nicer."

He looks at her, truly studying her. Her hair is not-quite to her shoulders, probably just from not having enough time to go get it cut. She probably had a shorter cut before and has just been too busy. The bangs almost hang in front of her eyes, almost concealing her dark eyebrows, and her attempt at a lack of expression is, ironically, entirely too revealing. Her face is almost entirely free of makeup, with a little mascara and some lip gloss—cherry, he thinks? Perhaps strawberry? Maybe vanilla—and she smells of cinnamon and coffee. Her hand is on her hip every few moments, as if to reach for the gun that isn't there. (It's probably somewhere in the purse she's holding, or, more unlikely though still possible, the suitcase she's dragging around, he realizes.)

This Teresa Lisbon looks dedicated to her job, and also to whomever she's visiting upon. _That person is very lucky indeed_, he thinks.

Lisbon watches him watch her. He's openly staring at her, with his dark blue eyes gazing upon her, and she can swear that all of the dull gray fades away. "What?" she snaps without quite meaning to. It's just that his stare—it makes her _jumpy_, damn it all. Like he can—excuse the cliché—see straight past her walls and into her very soul.

Patrick Jane just smiles. "Oh, nothing. Just—what's the term?—'sizing you up,' Miss Lisbon. 'Miss' is correct, isn't it? That is, I assume you're unmarried, given the whole no-ring thing."

She sneaks a peek at his left hand, which is uncovered. Yup, sure enough, there's a wedding band. "Well, your wife is a very lucky woman, to have such an astute husband."

Jane almost-but-not-quite-flinches, which is a rather good improvement, considering that a few months ago, he would have been screaming and hysterically sobbing at the mention of his wife. "I'm afraid that she's no longer here, Miss—may I call you Teresa?"

"Sure," she answers unsurely. "I'm sorry. Did she have to go to another town?"

"No, I'm afraid she's left permanently." She looks confused, which is a rather cute look on her. "She died," he explains, and her eyes widen. Her gaze darts to the bandages on his wrists as though she finally _gets it_, which she does, and then she's stammering her condolences and her apologies all in one breath, and it all sounds like a mess of gibberish. "Whoa, whoa, breathe, Teresa, breathe," he speaks, raising his voice over her stuttering. "It's all right. Thank you, though. But honestly, don't apologize. It's not as though I broadcast it to the world, do I?" he chuckles, twisting the ring with his other hand. "I'm afraid I can be quite misleading."

Lisbon purses her lips, recovered. "Indeed." She checks her watch. "I'm sorry, but visiting hours end soon—my plane was later than I'd thought—and I _did_ come here to see my brother. Besides, you still look tired."

It's true. He looks absolutely _exhausted_. It's probably a side effect of whatever medication they're giving him, to keep him from harming himself or something. She's not really sure about that kind of procedure. _What kinds of medication _do_ they give to suicide attempters?_

He waves it all away with a brandish of his hand. As if he can wave away the dark circles under his eyes, or the scars underneath the bandages on his wrists. As if he could simply gesture and the misleading wedding band would disappear. She swallows nervously.

"I'm fine," he says casually, as if it's okay to be in a hospital for a suicide attempt, "though I was having a rather nice nap until you tried to assault my wall."

"I apologized," she snaps, and he looks faintly confused, probably as to how you can apologize to a _wall_. "Not to the wall. To you." She's stumbling over the words now, trying to explain herself, and she absolutely hates it. He's making her unsure of herself just with his mere presence, and she _detests_ that.

"Indeed you did, albeit under extremely different circumstances, so I will let you go." He bites his lip as she turns to leave. She crosses the room and her hand darts out to twist the doorknob before he finally speaks up. "Wait…Teresa? Will you come back tomorrow?" he asks, thinking to himself that he sounds uncharacteristically desperate.

(The employees at the mental hospital would tend to disagree on the whole "uncharacteristically" thing.)

She hesitates. "Well, I, um—"

"—please," he interrupts her, surprising himself with the urgency in his voice. He must be lonelier than he'd thought. "I haven't got any other visitors. And I'm going out of my mind with no companions except for those bovine nurses. They have nothing to talk about." (He thinks it's rather funny, in a sick way, to be talking about going out of his mind when he's just spent the last year in a mental hospital, of all places to be.)

Lisbon's teeth grind as she thinks about it. (Damn it, spending too much time with Sam.) Finally, she sighs, giving in. Guilt and sympathy win out over awkwardness anytime, apparently. "You have those 'bovine' nurses to thank for my company," she teases, trying to lighten the mood out of its seriousness. "They directed me to you by mistake. I'll come back. I'll be back here tomorrow. I can come see you then."

Immediately, his entire face lights up, and she feels even guiltier for being so concerned about just the _awkwardness_ of it. Unease is nothing compared to losing your wife, and being so alone in a hospital that you make conversation with a random lady (who might be crazy for all he knows) who "assaulted" your wall. She feels sad for him that he's that excited about her. _Her_, for God's sake. She doesn't even think that she's all that special.

"I'll eagerly await your next arrival with anticipation," he says grandly, trying to get a smile out of her. Or maybe he's trying to get a rise out of her. She can't really tell with this guy.

"See you then," she says politely, drawing her purse closer to her and exiting, still dragging the suitcase with her.

* * *

Finally, after a little redirection from a nurse that _knows_ what she's doing, Lisbon knocks on the right door.

"C'mon in, Tess," a voice from within calls, sounding eerily like their dad.

She pushes down those thoughts—_Dad's been dead for years, stupid, just open the damn door and quit making a fool of yourself at this hospital_—and opens the door, relieved to see Matt sitting upright in the bed, smiling eagerly at her.

"Hey, Matt," she says, faking composedness—as though it's _okay _to wait a year before telling her that he's dying—and then crosses the room. She reaches him and sits down at the chair beside his bed, and then punches him in the arm.

"Hey! Ouch, Tess! What the hell?" He rubs his upper arm. "Jesus. You can still pack one hell of a punch."

"You didn't tell me a damn thing!" she hisses, abandoning the façade. "One entire year, not a single word! You haven't told James or Tommy either, have you? Scratch that, I _know_ you haven't. You idiot!" she punches him again in the other arm, feeling a little more satisfied than she did an hour ago. "I can't believe you. You're such a—"

"—prick? Bastard?" Matt asked. "Yes, I know it was cruel not to say anything, but—Jesus, Tess, just quit hitting me, okay? I'm sorry!"

Teresa bit back tears and choked back another curse. "Fine."

"I'm sorry, okay?" he says when she doesn't keep talking. He looks guilty now, twiddling his thumbs, looking down at his lap. He's sitting up in the bed and his hair is all messed up and uncombed, reminding her of a memory.

* * *

_Little Mattie, only a few years old at the time, tottering after her…_

…_just having barely learned how to walk._

"_Look, Tessie, watch me! Watch me, Tessie!" he says. His slight lisp is audible whenever he says her name. He stumbles after her as she backs away slowly, and they're both playing the game now. She keeps walking, he keeps following. His overalls are a size too big—because their dad can't shop to save his life, which mom pretends to be mad over but secretly laughs at—and a strap falls from his shoulder. He sticks his thumb in his mouth as he staggers in her direction._

_She's paused to take a breath—they've been playing this game for ten or so minutes now, they need a breather—and she hides behind the living room couch. Mommy and Daddy aren't home, and James is at a friend's house playing baseball. Tommy is down the street playing football in that old empty lot with some of their neighbors' kids. She's been assigned to babysitting Matt for free —which she thinks is ridiculously unfair. She's ten years old, after all, she argues. She should get paid. (But she doesn't really mind. It's Matt, after all—her _baby_. The one she's closest to, to be honest.)_

_Matt trips over his own feet and almost sprawls to the floor, but picks himself up before he can, looking up at her with delight. "Look, Tessie, I did it!" he exclaims with delight, thumb still stuck childishly in his mouth._

"_I know, honey, I know," she encourages him. "Just a few more steps." Then, maybe, she can finally rest._

_He takes a few more steps, nearly trips, and catches himself again, saving her from the task of picking him up after a fall. Then he falls into her waiting arms, both of them hidden behind the couch like secret stowaways on a ship going to a faraway land. It's like the pirate stories she's read to him before. Matt loves pirates. Boys always go through phases like that. For James, it was dinosaurs, for Tommy, it's still football (and probably will be for the rest of his life, knowing how he got the Lisbon stubbornness, just as she did), and now for Matt it's pirates. They giggle behind the couch, and she tells him to pretend to be a stowaway hiding on a ship headed towards El Dorado._

_He asks her about El Dorado, and she tells him the story of the city with streets paved with gold. He asks her if they can pledge to be pirates too and she tells him yes. She picks a book out of her mom's library—_Moby Dick—_and only reads a few pages before Matt falls asleep in her arms, tucked underneath a blanket beside her, both of them curled up on the couch. She watches him for a minute, noting how messy and odd-looking his hair is. It's been a lazy Saturday in June for them, and they haven't done anything today except run around the living room. He hasn't even bothered to brush his hair. Boys._

_She pushes a stray piece of his trademark-Lisbon-dark hair back from his face and puts away the book._

_She couldn't know then that already his body was planning to betray him._

* * *

His voice interrupts her thoughts. "I should have called. Said something. Anything. Maybe not even done that. Maybe I should've asked you to come down here sooner. Anything other than what I did. But I can't fix it," he says, with the slightest bit of guilt evident in his tone, "and you're here now. So now what?"

She remembers where she is, and snaps back to attention. "One: I would've come down here if you'd called me sooner, whether you _asked_ me to or not," she retorts. "Two: what happens now is this. I stay here for a little while longer, I leave, I rent a stupid car because I am _not _getting into another one of those godforsaken taxis with their stupid drivers, I go rent a hotel room or maybe an inn or something, and I come back here tomorrow. And the next day. And every day that you need me."

Her thoughts stray to Patrick Jane, too, and she's almost sure that he needs her to come back too, possibly even longer than Matt will until he gets better (because her Mattie is _going_ to get better, he is, she swears it).

Matt lets her clasp one of her hands in his as they continue talking, which eventually turns into reminiscing, even to that one lazy summer Saturday with _Moby Dick_ and learning how to walk, though he remembers little of it. And she pushes Patrick Jane out of her mind. Remembering him in that hospital bed, there is no way he would fit in with Abram and whales and overalls and no-charge-by-force babysitting. He belongs with other memories, very new ones with bandages and assaulted walls and misleading rings and too-blue, too-sadly-gray eyes. And ringlets. She has never seen an adult with ringlets like his before. She thinks out of the blue that she wants his conditioner's name.

Then she remembers she's supposed to be pushing that charming man out of her mind, and she goes back to recalling old times with Matt.

(Besides, she'll see Patrick Jane tomorrow. It's not like she's counting the hours. Not deliberately, anyway.)

* * *

A/N: So, recap, Lisbon's brother is sick with leukemia and she's adamant that he's _not_ going to die, Lisbon got directed to Jane's room by a terrible nurse, Jane is _still_ a little crazy (you just haven't seen it yet, ;D), and no, I haven't introducted Cho, Van Pelt, or Rigsby. I'm working on chapter two already.


End file.
